Dear Anyone,
They were burned alive.
The video showing their slow death and deafening screams are circulating all over the country.
War is beguiling for those who have yet to understand life.
It is only real for those who have tasted heartbreak.
We will all live a different story until all of this ends.
And we are told that it will not end soon.
It is starting to get cold, and yet, it is suffocatingly hot.
No area is exempted from the raids.
As for the drone, well, Dear anyone, it lives with us, tracking our every move.
Disrupting our stories.
But tell me, dear anyone, which one of us has the privilege at the moment to live any story?
However fake or glorious it proves to be.
Our conversations with one another are very limited.
"They are getting closer. They are not overlooking any area. Any city. They have no respect for age, physical ailments. They are destroying everything".
Everyone.
Including those who have remained alive.
Almost alive.
Historical souks are being annihilated.
With no remorse.
And our conversations with one another remain very limited.
But I told you that, already, didn't I?
"How did that baby remain alive for two days under the rubbles?".
Our conversations with ourselves are painfully personal.
Embarrassingly intimate.
In times like these, we cannot escape ourselves.
I am reading 15 books at the same time.
Oftentimes I read the same page dozens of times in order to grasp the meanings.
I have used the word "times" quite a few times, didn't I?
I shudder at the thought of might happen next.
They are getting closer.
No longer constricting their violence to one area.
Maybe this time things will turn out differently.
Perhaps with time, our breathing will no longer collide with our memories.
Delusive assurances.
And yet, what other choice do we have but to hang on to them?
And a small knowing smile that has not drowned in despair yet.
Maybe this time things will be different.
And we will rewrite the story.
Each in his own style.
And the memories will no longer stand in the way of our breathing.
War is taller and mightier than the small smile disguising fear and despair.
Companies are shutting down.
Families are eating whatever is available.
The displaced are accepting whatever is offered to them.
We cannot indulge in the luxury of impatience.
We can pray and attempt , for the zillionth time, to rewrite the story.
And each of us has his own story.
How many wars must we survive, dear anyone?
Especially those of us who remained almost alive.
He laughed loudly when they found him still alive under the building which crumbled on top of his and many more heads.
He laughed when he was able to breathe from the small hole the rescuers dug for him to see a bit of light after hours of darkness.
"Get me a hookah. If I don't make it, at least I will die a happ man".
How many wars must we survive, dear Anyone?
Aren't the ones we fight daily with ourselves, terminal enough?
until later, or maybe never,
Hanadi
P.s. I keep listening to my father's favorite song, "Fascination", by Nat King Cole. And I dream, dear anyone. I dream of houses built on trees. Of beginnings and their endless promises. Of an ordinary life filled with the magic of nothing. Why must we always achieve something, dear anyone? Why must we always be someone? I might never write to you again. But do not worry, I will make it. I always do. And in the background, there will always be the remains of a fascinating life. If only it was lived.
October 15 2024
EN 
AR